So... the first thing I wanna say is... Halfway houses suck! The last thing I heard before I came over here to the office to write this was, "I know she's fat, but should I fuck her anyways?" That is pretty much the norm around here. Old shirtless men walking around and the wasted youth (my generation... and judging from the old shirtless men, not much has changed since 1972). Everyday, I find myself trying to rise above this bullshit, but it really never works all that well. Every time I open my mouth, people accuse me of being a "faggot" or a "bitch." Well... I sure as fuck am not a cigarette or female dog (if you can't see the humor in that, go read a fucking book).
My house is a very strange place to live. I have three other roommates. #1 Jeff, the punk. He is a defiant junkie from Jersey. I like him. Good man. I would feel proud to stand, middle finger raised, with him in front of the White House. #2 Frank, the prize child of god-forsaken West Palm Beach. He is quite frankly ( :-} ) a creepy motherfucker. He enjoys writing his (i think imaginary) girlfriend's name, inside of little hearts, on the back of his spiral notebook. Not to rip on the man or anything, but he also can't really move his neck. Thus creating Frankenstein. #3 Last but not least... Sean, the smelly, sandal wearing, ex-pot dealer, wannabe marine biologist, stoner hippie-fuck. This is my house...
To be continued...
